10. VALENTINO
10
VALENTINO
I adjust my tie, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
Everything about my appearance is flawless, the jet-black suit tailored to perfection, the crisp white shirt that molds against my torso, the steel-gray tie knotted with expert precision. My Rolex glints under the soft glow of the bathroom lights, ticking in perfect rhythm, steady and controlled.
Just like me.
And yet, something feels off.
Not with my reflection.
With me.
There’s a strange, gnawing sensation at the base of my spine, something restless clawing at my chest.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve never given a damn about a date before.
But this isn’t a date.
It’s a performance. A business arrangement. A means to an end.
Then why the hell do I feel this itching sense of anticipation, this irrational need to impress her?
I exhale sharply, running a hand through my hair before stepping outside.
Tonight, I’ll make her see me differently, whether she wants to or not.
***
When I pull up outside Layla’s apartment, my hands are steady on the wheel. Controlled. Calculated.
And then, she steps outside.
Fuck.
The air punches out of my lungs like I’ve taken a direct hit to the ribs.
She’s stunning.
A little black dress clings to her like a second skin, hugging every sinful curve, the silky fabric dipping just enough at the neckline to tempt, to make my mouth go dry.
Her legs… Jesus Christ.
They seem endless, toned, and smooth, the kind of legs meant for wrapping around a man’s waist.
Her hair falls in dark, glossy waves over her shoulders, catching the dim glow of the streetlights.
And then there’s her mouth, lips painted in a deep, blood-red shade, slightly parted as she catches me staring.
Her smirk is slow, knowing.
I recover quickly, smirking as I step out of the car. In three long strides, I’m in front of her.
Towering over her smaller frame, the scent of her perfume, something warm, decadent, and impossibly feminine, weaving around me, testing my restraint.
She tilts her chin up, meeting my gaze head-on, like she’s daring me to say something.
I do.
“You look like trouble.”
My voice is low, rough, edged with something dangerous.
Her lips curl, her eyes flickering with amusement. “I prefer ‘irresistible’.”
I step closer, letting my breath fan against the shell of her ear.
“Trust me, I’m resisting.”
She inhales sharply, her pupils dilating ever so slightly.
She wants to fight it.
Good.
I want her to fight it.
Because that means she’s feeling it too.
Layla slides into the passenger seat, crossing her legs with deliberate slowness, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
The hem of her dress rides up just a little.
I force my hands to stay on the wheel.
She buckles in. “So, where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
She exhales, slumping back in her seat. “I hate surprises.”
I smirk, shifting gears. “You hate not being in control.”
She turns her head, watching me carefully. “And you love being in control?”
I grip the steering wheel just a little tighter.
She has no idea.
When we arrive at the vintage movie theater, I pull into the private lot.
Layla glances at the glowing marquee, her brows pulling together.
The theater is empty, just as I intended. Rows of untouched seats stretch out before us, the massive screen waiting to come to life. The dim sconces along the walls cast a soft, ambient glow, making the space feel more intimate than cavernous.
Layla steps inside hesitantly, her eyes scanning the room before landing on me with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. "You rented out the entire theater?"
I shrug. "Seemed like the easiest way to avoid distractions."
She lets out a small huff, crossing her arms. "And here I thought you weren’t the romantic type."
I smirk, stepping closer to her. "I’m not." I lean in slightly. "But I know how to plan a good date."
Her lips part slightly, and I catch the quick rise and fall of her chest before she rolls her eyes, brushing past me toward the best seats in the house.
I follow, taking the seat beside her, watching as she settles in.
There's something different about tonight, something unspoken lingering between us, but I push the thought away as the lights dim.
The screen flickers to life, and the opening credits of The Wedding Singer roll.
Layla stiffens beside me. "You picked an Adam Sandler movie?"
The amusement in her voice makes me smirk. "You sound surprised."
"I am surprised. I figured you'd pick something serious. A mob drama. A war film. Some depressing foreign movie that leaves you questioning your existence."
I chuckle, shaking my head. "Contrary to what you think, I do enjoy a good rom-com."
She narrows her eyes playfully. "I’ll believe that when I see it."
As the movie plays, I steal glances at her.
At first, she’s skeptical. I can practically see her resisting the charm of it, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. But as the story unfolds, I notice the subtle shifts, the way her posture softens, the way she bites her lip to keep from laughing, the way she leans forward slightly, caught up in the ridiculous sincerity of it all.
And then, the moment comes.
The grand gesture.
Robbie, singing Grow Old With You on the plane, pouring his heart out in the kind of over-the-top romantic declaration that most people would roll their eyes at.
But not Layla. She inhales sharply beside me. Then, without thinking, without hesitating, she reaches for me.
Her fingers curl around my forearm, a soft, instinctive touch. Not calculated. Not forced. Just… natural.
And it does something to me.
I go still, my entire body hyper-aware of that small connection. The warmth of her hand, the way her fingers tighten slightly as if she’s anchoring herself to me.
She doesn’t realize it, but I do.
She’s feeling this.
The movie. The moment. Me.
I turn my head slightly, looking down at her, but she’s still caught in the scene, her eyes locked on the screen, her expression unguarded. Vulnerable.
I don’t move.
I don’t pull away.
And neither does she.
After a few beats, I clear my throat, my voice lower than intended.
"Enjoying yourself?"
She blinks, like she’s just now realizing what she did. But instead of letting go, her fingers flex slightly against my arm.
"I mean… it's alright," She tries, and fails, to sound indifferent.
I smirk. "Just alright?"
She finally looks up at me, her eyes flickering with something undecipherable.
"Fine." She exhales. "It’s better than I expected."
I chuckle. "Told you."
She doesn’t roll her eyes this time. Doesn’t pull away either.
And for the first time since this whole arrangement started, I let myself wonder, what if this wasn’t fake?
What if this was real?
The thought lingers, dangerous and unshakable, as the credits roll and Layla finally, reluctantly, lets go.
“Well, that was... sweet."
I turn to her. “Glad I passed the Layla Gallo approval test.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a softness to her expression. A quiet kind of warmth that I rarely see from her. It’s unguarded, real, like for the first time, she’s letting herself be here with me, not just fulfilling an obligation.
I don’t want to break the moment.
But I do.
Instinctively, I reach for my phone, lifting it between us.
Her expression shifts instantly, like a wall slamming back into place.
The warmth? Gone.
The laughter in her eyes? Snuffed out in an instant.
Her entire body goes rigid, her shoulders squaring like she’s preparing for a battle she didn’t realize she was about to fight.
“Oh,” she says, her voice cool, clipped. “Right. You needed proof of this date. That’s why you bothered with all this.”
Her words land like a punch, sharp and unexpected.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, to explain that this wasn’t just about proving something to my father, that I was actually enjoying myself with her.
But before I can get a single word out, she plasters on a picture-perfect smile, the kind that looks effortless but feels too practiced. Too deliberate.
She snatches the phone from my hands.
“What are you waiting for?” she says lightly, too lightly. “Let’s put on a show.”
Click.
A perfect photo.
A couple that looks happy, like they belong here, wrapped up in each other and in the romance of the night.
But it’s all wrong.
The tension crackles between us, thick and heavy. The easy comfort we had just moments ago? Shattered.
I don’t know what I did wrong.
She pushes my phone back into my hand, her fingers brushing against mine for a fleeting second before she pulls away completely.
And then, just like that, she turns.
She doesn’t wait for me to post it, doesn’t wait for me to respond.
She just walks away.
I watch her go, frustration curling in my chest, my grip tightening around the phone.
I stare down at the screen, the image of us, looking like something we’re not.
With a sharp exhale, I post it.
Fuck. This is going to be a long six months.
***
The next evening, I head to Layla’s shop.
I don’t call ahead. I just show up.
And I’m glad I do.
She’s standing in the middle of the space, surrounded by workers, gesturing with confidence as she directs them on where to place things, how to handle certain repairs, what needs fixing immediately.
She’s in her element.
And damn, it’s sexy.
The way she moves, the sharpness in her tone, the absolute authority she carries, it’s intoxicating. She’s not just running a business. She’s owning it. And everyone around her is hanging onto her every word.
For a moment, I just watch her, taking it all in.
She doesn’t notice me at first, too caught up in her world.
And then finally, her gaze lands on mine.
Her brows furrow slightly, as if she’s trying to figure out why the hell I’m just standing here like an idiot.
"Hey," I call out, walking toward her. "Take a break with me, boss."
Her lips twitch at the word boss, but she exhales, glancing around at her workers. The place is still a mess, but I can tell they’re making progress.
“Alright.” She brushes a stray strand of hair from her face.
I smirk. “Wow. Didn’t think you’d be the type to step away from ruling your kingdom.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. “I guess I can give myself five minutes.”
“Generous of you. Must be exhausting being this bossy all the time.”
She shoots me a look. “I prefer the term ‘leader’.”
I chuckle. “Sure. That’s one way to spin it.”
Her lips curve slightly, and for the first time today, she looks lighter. Less stressed. I like seeing her like this.
And I like knowing I’m the one who pulled her away.
We end up at a park nearby, sitting on a bench as she takes a much-needed breather.
I reach into the small paper bag I brought along and pull out a pastry, placing it in her hand without a word.
She looks down at it, then back up at me, her brows knitting together. “What’s this?”
“Italian pastries.” I grab one for myself. “From a little shop in Milan my mother used to take me to when I was young.”
She studies it suspiciously, giving it a sniff. “You didn’t poison this, did you?”
I smirk. “You really think I’d waste a perfectly good pastry on poisoning you?”
She shrugs. “You could be playing the slow game. Lull me into a false sense of security, then—” She drags her thumb across her neck.
I chuckle, breaking a piece off mine and popping it into my mouth. “If I wanted to get rid of you, I wouldn’t have gone all the way to Milan for it.”
She laughs, finally taking a bite. Her eyes widen slightly as she chews. “Damn… This is good.”
“Told you.”
She points a finger at me. “For a snob, you’ve got great taste in food.”
I place a hand over my chest. “I’m deeply honored.”
She takes another bite before glancing at me. “So… your mom used to take you to this place?”
I nod, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “Yeah. It was our thing. Every Sunday morning, she’d take me and my brother, let us pick out whatever we wanted. But I always got the same thing.” I hold up my pastry. “This one. A sfogliatella.”
She watches me, her expression softening. “You don’t talk about her much.”
I shrug, my jaw tightening slightly. “Not many people ask.”
There’s a pause, one of those rare ones where neither of us feels the need to fill it with words. She just looks at me, and for some reason, it’s easier to share things with her.
“She loved little traditions like that. Small things that made life special. She always said happiness isn’t in grand gestures, it’s in the everyday moments.”
Layla nods. “She sounds like she was an incredible woman.”
“She was.” My throat feels tight, so I clear it, shaking off the weight of nostalgia. “Anyway, enough about me. I have something to ask you.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”
“My dad’s having a party this weekend.” I tilt my head slightly. “You in?”
She hesitates, shifting slightly. “I’d have to find a sitter for Vincent.”
I pause, watching her carefully. “Bring him.”
That’s when I see it.
The subtle way her body tenses. The way her expression shifts, not just hesitation, but something deeper. Fear.
She shakes her head quickly. “No, it’s better if someone else watches him.”
I lean back against the bench, watching her with curiosity. “You’re acting like I just invited you to a mob gathering.”
She exhales sharply. “Valentino, this isn’t just a party. It’s a Marchetti party.”
“So?”
She gives me a look. “So? So ? Do you have any idea how much pressure that is?”
I grin. “It’s just a bunch of rich people pretending to be interesting. You’ll fit right in.”
She groans, pressing her fingers to her temples. “That is not reassuring.”
I nudge her lightly with my elbow. “Just be yourself. You’ll be fine.”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you sure about that? Because I feel like ‘being myself’ is exactly what wouldn’t go over well.”
I smirk. “True. Maybe tone down the sarcasm.”
She scoffs. “Then I’ll have nothing to say.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “You’ll be fine, Layla.” Then, with a more serious note, I add, “I wouldn’t be inviting you if I didn’t think so.”
That shuts her up for a moment. She looks at me, something unreadable passing through her eyes.
Finally, she sighs, shaking her head. “I hate that you’re so convincing.”
I smirk, knowing I have her right where I want her. “So, that’s a yes?”
“It’s a maybe.”
I grin. “I’ll take it.”
She rolls her eyes but takes another bite of her pastry, and I know I’ve won this round. But something lingers between us, something heavier than playful banter.
She’s hiding something.
And I’m going to find out exactly what it is.